


Piecing together our jigsaw of failures

by silveriris



Series: Arsonist's Lullabye [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Sampernia, vague spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something urging her to run before it all shatters. Before the god she considered her salvation drags her down with him, and all her plans turn into nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine, sadly.  
> A/N: I had three stories in my drafts since August. I thought they’re garbage, that I should never publish them but burn my laptop, and forget I ever wrote them. I was so depressed I had no motivation to do anything, fandom related things and writing included.  
> However. I personally *hate* when fics are left unfinished, so I think I could at least try to finish what I started despite the fact that I’m completely dissatisfied with what I wrote.  
> This is the first one, I’ll post the next story later this week, and the last one next week. If you’re one of those three people who read the previous parts, this one’s for you.  
> Title from Wildest Wind by IAMX. I adore this song.  
> Comments & constructive criticism always welcome.

When the last of their opponents falls, his piercing scream echoes between the walls. Life disappears from his eyes, leaving an empty, damaged shell. There are poems and stories glorifying death. The truth is that dying is never beautiful. It may be horrifying, sometimes it’s a joke, but it’s never _pretty_.

Calpernia lowers her staff, the acrid smell of the burnt flesh curling up in the back of her throat. Some of her people turn their heads in disgust, one man is shaking visibly, his pale face covered in sweat.  _Argus_ , a name comes to her mind as Calpernia glances at him. She will talk to him later, and carefully explain–   _remind_. She will _remind_ Argus the Venatori have to fight for the glory of Tevinter. The road is paved with skulls and bones of their enemies, and he should not waver when their goal is so close.

If their _god_ remembers to fulfil his promise. If Corypheus hasn’t forgotten about her mission, the very purpose of her life. If she is not yet another expendable piece in the grand game he is playing.

Calpernia keeps her thoughts  to herself. _Hold yourself high, Venatori_ , she writes in letters. _When the Elder One rises, so too will rise Tevinter._ She used to be so certain there’s meaning behind these words. She’s left with doubts instead.

Ignoring the smell of the carnage before her, she moves forward to inspect the rest of the building. Corypheus sent them here to destroy this temple, killing everyone that stood in their way. If they aren’t with us, they are against us – it’s a logic simple enough to understand. For now, at least. Calpernia feels the unrest growing in her heart every time she speaks to the Elder One. He doesn’t listen to her anymore. Perhaps he never did but she tricked herself into believing a god would pay attention to a lowly slave.

It’s unfair and cruel, the way Corypheus doesn’t seem to care about her requests. She’s certain there’s something he’s not telling her on purpose. Her spies can’t tell her anything. Calpernia learns so much about the Inquisition, but when it comes to the Elder One, she feels blind. Blinded by his promises and her own naivety, most likely.

She doesn’t know _what_ she should do. Betrayal would surely fuel her anger, but she must be careful. She’s merely human, how could she challenge a living god?

Samson doesn’t know much; he’s a soldier, he follows orders. He’s honest with her, Calpernia hopes. He seems more concerned about his Red Templars, than the possibility that Corypheus may be hiding something from them both, that he is _lying_ to them.

She used to be so proud, that she is the one Corypheus chose, not a magister but a common slave, an _incaensor_ unworthy of her gift. Those who oppose him are wrong, and they will be soon turned into dust if they don’t wish to join them. Everything used to be so… simple. Now her former pride makes her bitter every time she thinks about her situation.

The Elder One wants the temple destroyed. Calpernia, however, can’t bring herself to simply destroy all this without checking first. There might be something that could help her understand the game Corypheus is playing. Going through a narrow corridor, she soon finds a room so small it’s nearly claustrophobic, filled with shelves heavy with scrolls covered in a layer of dust.

“Is this a… scriptorium?”

Hearing the voice Calpernia almost jumps. She briefly glances at the mage standing behind her, Linus, who’s curiously looking around. There’s always someone conveniently near her just in case; to deliver messages or guard her from whatever danger awaits the Venatori. Being the leader comes with certain privileges, although sometimes they feel more like a burden. They respect her privacy but she needs to be careful when it comes to her words and actions. It’s obvious that certain people among the Venatori don’t exactly love her.

“Perhaps,” she replies, reaching for one of the scrolls.

She narrows her eyes, trying to read the words. It’s Elhven, she’s sure, but it’s not the language she can recognise. She could try to decipher it if she had enough time.

Suddenly the paper crumbles in her hands, its value and meaning lost forever. Cursing in her thoughts, Calpernia turns to the mage behind her. He’s been patiently waiting for orders, and appears almost startled when she finally looks directly at him.

“Check which scrolls aren’t damaged and take them with you. You’ll bring them to my chamber once we return, and you will be _discreet_ about it,” she instructs. “If anyone asks, tell them nothing. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but… We were supposed to destroy everything– “ he begins and stops immediately, as she continues to glare at him, now with a certain hint of irritation.

“I know what we were supposed to do, Linus. I’m _asking_ you to save some of these writings that may prove useful for our cause.”

“Y– yes, of course, I didn’t mean to…” he hesitates, eyes fixed on the floor, too afraid to look at her directly. “With all due respect, Lady Calpernia, if I may speak openly…”

He quickly glances at her, and Calpernia’s mouth twitches when she notices how much fear there is in his eyes. She gives him a nod.

_You are no slave, Linus_. _You may do as you please_ , she considers adding but doesn’t. Not so long ago it was new to her as well. He has to learn this all by himself. What’s the point of _ordering_ someone to act like a free person?

“Forgive me for this blasphemy, but I… and every other person who owes you their life, I’m sure… We are not loyal to the Elder One. We are loyal to you. Whatever you command, we will follow.”

His panicked eyes tell her he’s awaiting punishment for speaking so openly, for not showing respect for the god she serves. _Sometimes it’s difficult to remember you are free._

“Thank you,” her lips curl into a smile. “I shall remember your words.”

He looks so relieved it’s heart–breaking. Calpernia’s gaze drifts away from his hopeful eyes, so she can’t be tempted to admit what she’s really thinking. She grabs another scroll, not paying much attention to its contents.

_We are not loyal to the Elder One._

It took a lot of courage to admit something like that openly, knowing she could have him flayed for disobedience.

Corypheus _might_ fall but it does not necessarily mean the end of her own hopes and dreams. She can hardly believe in what she is considering, but there’s something urging her to run before it all shatters. Before the god she considered her salvation drags her down with him, and all her plans turn into nothing.

She has nothing but words; promises, orders, reprimands when she dares to ask the Elder One because she _needs_ some kind of reassurance. He offers nothing. Only words.

_Empty words that don’t mean anything_ , the voice inside her mind whispers, igniting a fire of anger that threatens to consume her whole.

The scroll she has in her hands catches fire, and Calpernia hisses, throwing the remains on the floor, forcing her magic to calm down.

“Hurry up, we should get going,” she says to Linus. He’s looking at her with something akin to concern in his dark eyes. She wonders how long she can keep pretending before they all notice she’s not the fearless leader they wish to see.

_We are loyal to you._

One day she will be brave enough to believe him.

* * *

 

Seeing the state of her room, one could call it messy. There are piles of books everywhere, papers and letters on her desk, and now also scrolls, some of them looking so fragile like they could crumble any second. Calpernia doesn’t want to think about it, but there’s something comforting in having so many books around. Perhaps one day she will have her own library. Like the one that belonged to Erasthenes, a place she considered magical long before she understood there’s magic inside her as well.

Previous owners of this house left quite a lot of books scattered around, nothing worth her attention, sadly. She’s idly browsing a tome of Fereldan legends. So many of them mention mabari Calpernia half wonders why in the void people here seem so obsessed with dogs. They hate all things that come from Tevinter, yet they adopted the hounds as their trusted friends. Reading one of the tales she scoffs. It’s about a dog that escaped after getting captured, and went on a long journey back home. Of course the tale ends with the dog and its owners living happily ever after. How _boring_.

She would throw the book across the room, but she has too much respect for the written word, so she just puts it aside, vowing to never waste time on such foolish things. Calpernia picks up another book. About an hour later she slams it shut. It’s so historically inaccurate it’s appalling how anyone could get it published. If she wasn’t in the middle of a blighted _war_ , she would track down the author and explained to him how wrong he is.

She lets out a sigh, her brows slightly furrowed, as she glances around looking for something to do. She should finish cleaning, or get up and talk to other Venatori, but she doesn’t feel like doing anything in particular. Besides, her people can take care of themselves. They’ve always been resourceful, and she recently noticed they cooperate with the Red Templars just fine, as if both sides suddenly wanted to cherish their unusual friendship.

And speaking of templars…

She stands up, and before she can think, she’s leaving the room. The door is always open, even though one day she found a key. Not all Venatori are truly loyal to her, but those who are not seem too afraid to show their displeasure. Some respect her, others fear her, it all works well, at least for now.

When Calpernia walks through the corridors, it feels almost like her body is moving on its own, not entirely against her will, but pulled by some unknown force that cares nothing for the inner turmoil in her mind. She should do _this_ , shouldn’t do _that –_ it’s all so very exhausting, Calpernia simply lets the fate decide.

She finally arrives at her destination. She stares at the door, hesitating. It feels good when she doesn't have to think about the twisted mess of reality. There’s certain pleasure in forgetting, even for on moment. When she can conveniently forget about all decisions, orders, letters. Perhaps this is how true freedom tastes like.

Calpernia opens the door without knocking, and freezes mid step, realising Samson is not alone.

The room he chose for himself is small, significantly smaller than her quarters. She asked Samson once why he picked this particular room when there are so many to choose from, bigger or more comfortable ones. He just shrugged, saying he doesn’t need much, and she didn’t question him further. What she learned once she became free was that it’s not difficult to _take_ when there’s nothing holding you back. No wonder kings often go mad with power. Meanwhile Samson doesn’t seem to care about taking what he deserves, even when it comes to such trivial things like picking a room.

There’s only a small bed by the wall, an old rug on the floor, a wooden table and a chair. There’s also a small fireplace, and a lone lantern hanging from a hook offering just enough light. Samson sits on the bed, he seems rather surprised to see her here, while Maddox occupies the one and only chair by the table.

“Lady Calpernia,” the mage gives her a nod. “I see you have returned. Please, do come in.”

Kindness in his voice takes her by surprise, and she hesitates, questions erupting in her mind ( _How much do you know?_ ), before she takes a step forward. She glances at Samson with irritation because he doesn’t look concerned _at all_. Then her eyes return to Maddox. She forces a smile on her lips, pointedly ignoring the sunburst symbol on his forehead.

“It’s good to see you, Lady Calpernia,” he says, his voice sincere.

“I’m here to – “ Calpernia begins, and stops, surprised how _hard_ it is to tell him some meaningless lie. She feels she should explain herself, and yet…

_I’m here because…_

_Because…_

Her mind is empty, but there’s something crawling up to her throat, threatening to choke her. She feels the mage’s eyes on her, the blush creeping into her cheeks. Samson is not saying a word, that bastard!, looking at her with polite curiosity.

“I’m sure you want to discuss some important matters in private,” the Tranquil gets up, and gestures at the chair. “I shall leave you, then.”

She wants to explain, although Maddox doesn’t seem surprised to see her here, which prompts her to wonder what he actually knows. One person can keep a secret, but if people start talking…

Then Calpernia wrinkles her nose, her mind suddenly distracted, smelling something she would rather not smell right now. She’s fine with fire and death, but _this_ … This particular smell makes her cringe. She looks at two bowls placed on the table, one of them already empty, but the other one…

“It’s fish soup,” Maddox says, taking the empty bowl in his hands. “It’s quite healthy.”

Seeing the expression on Calpernia’s face, Samson begins explaining. “There’s a river not far from here, and the other day…”

“I’m not curios as to _how_ this got here, I’m simply amazed how can you call something this smelly a soup.”

“I’ll be in my chamber, in case you need me,” Maddox gives them a nod, and disappears before they can notice.

“So you’re not a fan, I get it,” Samson says, reaching for his bowl.

“I can see _fish eyes_ floating between carrots. It may be healthy, but the word I’m looking for is _disgusting_.”

“Alright then, no soup for you. Though you should start eating better. Under all these layers of your fancy Tevinter clothes you’re skinny like a stick.”

“How about you eat your blighted soup and shut up?” she blurts out, scarlet blush colouring her face. “Maybe you’ll choke to death!”

He shakes his head, and she can see he’s trying to hide a smile, that foolish man. Her face is still burning, so she doesn’t say anything, hoping her silence will stop him from saying more ridiculous things.

Staring at her knees, she exhales slowly, tension leaving her body. Samson is so irritating she’s _this close_ to strangling him with her bare hands, yet his company is oddly comforting. She feels at peace when there’s a templar sitting by her side. Part of her mind wants to laugh bitterly because it sounds like a joke. And yet, just few minutes of simply sitting together is enough for her to relax.

_When did this happen?_ , Calpernia wonders anxiously. It’s something she can’t control, meaning it can be used against her. To her own surprise, this doesn’t worry her as much as it should.

“So,” Samson’s eyes move to her again, and he attempts to sound innocent. “What are you doing here, Calpernia? You didn’t come for a bowl of a perfectly fine soup, I guess.”

She gives him a stern look.

“Just saying hello,” she purses her lips. “I will leave you with the love of your life, then. Enjoy your horrible soup.”

“Have I ever told you about that place in Kirkwall that serves just the perfect fish and egg pie? Now that’s something I’d call my true love.”

She wrinkles her nose. “What is the problem with you and fish?”

He shrugs. “I guess Free Marchers appreciate good food. Don’t you have fish in Tevinter?”

“Well, in _Tevinter_ we value quality in everything, including food, and we certainly don’t eat anything that smells so bad,” she waves her hands. “But I’m done here, I will not waste time discussing food that be only described as _utterly disgusting_.”

“So you’re saying Tevinter cuisine is superior because..?” Samson arches an eyebrow, looking at her with something resembling genuine interest but she knows he’s just teasing her, that infuriating bastard. She lost count how many times he made her mad _on purpose_ , always saying things so innocently only to irk her, then laughing like a fool he is.

“Enough with this ridiculous conversation!” she hisses, jumping on her feet so abruptly the chair wobbles, nearly falling back. “You are _impossible_ today. I’m leaving.”

Samson shakes his head. When their eyes meet (his seem more tired than usually, more hollow, more red), she can’t quite decide what she sees in his gaze.

“Maddox already said it, but… It’s good to see you.”

She expects more mockery, surprised that in his eyes there’s nothing but honesty. It hurts to look at him, for some reason, so Calpernia promptly turns around. Avoidance is better that open confrontation, she should know.

For a moment that feels like eternity, Calpernia wants to tell him everything.

_The Elder One is not telling us the whole truth. He’s lying. He’s been lying the whole time._

She lowers her head. It would be so easy to fall apart. The storm in her head makes her unable to speak.

_There’s a part of me that wants to leave._

And more, so much more it’s terrifying.

Breath it, breath out, and she’s herself again. It’s getting more difficult lately, as if there was something trying to choke her.

“I’ll see you later,” Calpernia says, staring at the floor. It’s dirty, and there are cobwebs hanging by the window, but who is she to tell him that he should take care of his surroundings. She would prefer if everything was nicely cleaned, even though no one is going to hit her with a stick if the floors aren’t scrubbed.

After a beat, she adds, although she’s not sure if she should. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

Calpernia is ready to (run away) leave, but something catches her eye so unexpectedly it’s impossible to make a step forward. There’s a small metal bird on a string laying on the table. She has seen Samson wearing it; the thought that he pays attention to this little thing makes him more human, somehow. Perhaps it’s his lucky charm.

Her eyes linger on the metal bird with outstretched wings for a moment too long. She flees the room, feeling Samson’s gaze watching her every move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: leave it to me to write 4k words about pointless stuff...

Memories don’t want to disappear, and he sees it all again. His sword is heavy and stained with blood, a crimson puddle forms under a headless body, grass sprayed with red drops. It’s so overwhelming that for a moment Samson is certain the whole world will drown in a scarlet sea.

“You have to see this!”

Calpernia’s voice pierces through his thoughts. Samson looks at her, startled. For a second he can’t remember how he got here. He went to see her, perhaps hoping she will provide just enough distraction to make all these invasive thoughts disappear.

Unlike her usual clothing that hides her body under layers of leather and belts, the blue robe she’s wearing shows off her slim figure. Freckles on her slightly tanned face have somehow multiplied. And she seems younger, too, full of energy and charm. Or maybe he’s just so tired that everyone in comparison look better than his old, worn–out self. 

It’s one of these days when Calpernia can’t stop talking. Her voice is always pleasant to hear, although it’s difficult to focus on her words at first, his mind distracting him with unwanted images. Samson follows her to the next room, realising he never even knew there’s another room attached to the chamber she’s currently occupying. He stops at the door, confused. His eyes return to Calpernia to see her gleeful smile.

“I finished cleaning in here. I wouldn’t want to stay here forever but I may as well make this place habitable.”

She was the one who cleaned in here, who dusted the floor, sorted all books she could find. Calpernia is in charge of the Venatori yet she doesn't let anyone do anything for her, even though she could easily order her people to serve her.

_I finished cleaning in here_ , Calpernia says and Samson remembers mages from the Circle who were like children who needed others to do the simplest tasks for them. Then there were the ones who escaped but couldn’t truly comprehend the world outside the tower. They wanted freedom with no Circle, failing to understand that being free also means taking care of yourself.

Templars and mages, they are both on a leash. The difference is that templars are trained like dogs. Feeling memories pressing in on the wall of his mind, Samson shakes his head. _Don’t think about it now_.

Samson steps inside and glances around. It used to be a bathing chamber; now there's nothing but the bathtub left, probably too heavy to move. It still looks splendid, though, polished porcelain that’s surely expensive.

Calpernia brought a chair and put some washcloths and a small box on it, but still the lack of other objects makes this room rather grim. There’s an oval shape on the wall, and when he looks closer he can recognise it's an empty frame of a mirror. He’s glad there’s no actual mirror in here, his reflection is certainly not something Samson wants to see right now. He hasn’t slept at all lately, and exhaustion is slowly catching up to him even with all this red lyrium inside his body. When he scratches his chin he feels the stubble on his face got significantly longer, probably resembling something like a poorly grown beard. So yes, he would rather avoid looking at himself. It’s a miracle Calpernia is still tolerating him in this state.

“Who in the void lived here?” Samson asks, confused. This bathroom is bigger than his quarters back in Kirkwall. Not that templars lived in luxury, but there’s something distressing in knowing that certain people had enormous bathrooms while in Darktown whole families had to live in one tiny room – if they were lucky.

Calpernia shrugs. “Some nobles lived here. I found a journal not so long ago, it was awfully dull. But look!” she adds, pointing at the tub. “Golden ornaments. This thing is so ridiculous, it must have cost a fortune. And they say Tevinter magisters are spoiled.”

“This is what happens when you have too much money to spend…” He walks closer to the bathtub, noticing it’s already filled with water.

“You’re actually going to use it?” Samson glances back at Calpernia, his lips fighting with a smile.

“How could I not? I mean, it’s just so… “ she waves her hands excitedly, unable to find the right words. “If I’ve known this thing is waiting here, I’d have cleaned this room sooner. We could spend the next week marching in dirt, so if I can have a proper bath, then I _will_.”

There’s something in her mock serious tone that nearly makes him burst out laughing. There’s a smile dancing on his lips as Samson reaches out to touch the water. It’s pleasantly hot. Previous owners had servants who prepared everything for them. Knowing Calpernia she did it all by herself.

Until they started... spending more time in each other's company (for the lack of a better expression), Samson never noticed how much she uses her hands when she talks, as if she wanted to say things she can't voice. At times flames appear on her fingertips, a reminder that she has so much power to create fire that doesn't burn her. She braids her hair so quickly it's hypnotising. And yet sometimes her hands are so clumsy Samson wants to laugh when she grabs his shirt and he can see hesitation in her eyes, _should she or shouldn't_ , always asking questions he's not sure he can answer.

Now, however, Calpernia seems rather excited. She certainly enjoys little luxuries, so he can only imagine she’s pretty thrilled by a prospect of bathing in this splendid tub. She probably got some fancy soaps and oils, Maker knows how.

“Have fun, then.” He turns to face her again, wipes hands on his shirt. “This thing is pretty big, so don’t drown or something. The Venatori will scatter in panic if you disappear.”

She frowns at him, the look on her face speaking volumes without her saying a single word ( _You are so funny. Hilarious. Need I remind you to never make of a mage, you stupid templar?_ ). Then her expression changes quickly, from irritation to pretend seriousness.

“You know who really needs a bath? You,” she points her index finger at him with an accusatory glare.

No matter how serious she wants to sound, it’s difficult to ignore the glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

_Is that an order or an invitation?_

“I really don’t have time for this…”

Calpernia narrows her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“We both know you’re going to say it anyway…” he sighs.

“It seems you keep forgetting you’re the Elder One’s _General_. You  represent a _living god_ , which means you have to look _presentable_ , not like… _this_ ,” she waves her hand at him, uncertain how she should define his current state.

“Well, it never bothered you that much before…” Samson mumbles under his breath.

Calpernia huffs with irritation. “You know what? Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore!”

Turning her back to him, she begins undressing, pointedly ignoring him. She slips out of her robe and folds it neatly, placing it on the arm of the chair, then gets in the tub and sighs contentedly, enjoying the water.

_Perhaps it was an invitation._

He’s never been particularly good at resisting temptation, so he gives in. Perhaps it will help to occupy his mind for a while.

He considers leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor, then he notices Calpernia's icy stare. It’s amazing that she manages to look threatening even in this situation. How could he forget that she doesn’t like when he’s being sloppy. Instead of carelessly tossing his clothes away, he has to fold them as well or else she will murder him here and now.

She's seen him naked already, yet a blush colours her cheeks making all her freckles more visible. She sweeps her eyes across his body, a hint of concern appears on her face. She doesn’t say anything, but what he sees in her eyes is too much.

Veins visible though his pale skin are ominously red, an obvious sign of the corruption devouring him. There aren't many mirrors around, besides he doesn't waste his time staring at his reflection, but the change in his body is something Samson can’t ignore. Calpernia sees it, too. There's no repulsion in her eyes, only acceptance. She’s not good at hiding her true feelings, concern plainly visible every time she looks at him. And it’s making him _mad_.

Calpernia may joke or snap at him all she wants, it's her worry he can't stand. It reminds him too much of the old times. In Kirkwall, some people regarded him as a yet another nuisance, another failure. He didn't pay much attention to them. What did sting, were looks full of pity that felt like a thorn in his side. Calpernia's worried gaze is dangerously close to _that_. It feels like an old wound opening to bleed and hurt again. With a hint of anger, Samson stares back at her. Their eyes meet, it’s a challenge of sorts, and he’s awaiting her response. Perhaps this is when Calpernia finally comments on what’s happening to him, and he will tell her he doesn’t want her pity (at least, this is what he _thinks_ he will do).

Calpernia quickly turns her head away, eyes fixed on her bony knees. His anger vanishes with another breath, replaced not with disappointment but _relief_ , making Samson question if he’s not too (afraid) tired to have this confrontation, ever.

She didn’t ask or order him to get out, which is a good sign, so he climbs in after her, sits across the tub. It’s big enough for him to sit comfortably on the other side. He surely didn’t plan this, but it feels… pleasant. Samson glances around, though there’s not much to look at, so his eyes return to Calpernia. It’s certainly more enjoyable to look at her than at the empty walls. She has her hair in buns like usually, though few strands escaped from tight braids, plastered to the side of her face. Parts of her arms are tanned, looking kind of funny contrasting with her pale skin.

“Stop staring,” she hisses, the flush on her face turns a shade darker. He would never describe her as shy, yet she blushes so easily it’s incredible.

He _could_ tell her that she was the one staring at him just a moment ago, but she has that particular expression on her face (the “how you irritate me!” look he knows so well). Samson merely lets out a sigh and turns his head to the side.

“Are we going to sit here till the water gets cold?” he asks the pile of his neatly folded clothes.

Calpernia scoffs. “Is this your first time taking a proper bath? No wonder templars always look like you roll around in dirt.”

“Simple soldiers have simple needs,” he replies, moving his gaze back to her just in time to see her rolling her eyes.

She reaches for the small wooden box laying on the chair. When she opens it Samson can notice three vials with most likely bathing oils, and also a square shape that looks like…

“Soap, Samson. Ever heard of it?”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “You are a delight today.”

Without a warning, she throws the soap at him. Luckily he manages to catch it. It smells vaguely of roses; the thought he’s going to smell like this almost makes him laugh.

He doesn't even bother to ask how she got it. He saw a package of sweets on her desks the other day. Samson is fairly sure she has the right people to get her whatever she requires – information or sweets, doesn't matter. If Calpernia asks for bathing supplies, she _gets_ them.

“How am I going to explain this flowery smell to my men?”

“Just say you got some nice gifts from our Orlesian allies.” Calpernia takes a small vial filled with bathing oil. When she opens it, he can smell lavender in the air.

“Do we still have any?” He asks, sceptical. “I doubt we could get fancy soaps from Orlais. Orlesians change sides rather quickly, if you ask me. But I guess they’re grateful the Inquisition didn’t conquer their precious country.”

A slight frown appears on Calpernia’s face. They’ve never talked about recent events (but have they ever talked about things?). Perhaps she’s as tired of this whole situation as he is.

 “If someone saw us now…”

“They would have a heart attack,” she shakes her head in disbelief.

He changes the topic rather clumsily but apparently it works. Calpernia doesn’t want to discuss the Inquisitor’s victories, especially the one involving Empress Celene.

“Imagine the scandal. Your Venatori would skin me alive for daring to touch their precious leader,” Samson points out, leaning back comfortably.

He can’t blame her that she’s angry. The Elder One doesn’t give her cause enough attention, he doesn’t want to listen when she tells him the Inquisitor is a threat they must defeat once and for all or they all are doomed.

“I'd just pretend I lured you here to drown you when you're so vulnerable”, Calpernia suggests.

 “You really think it would be so easy?” He gives her a curious look. “Are you going to ignore the obvious fact that I’m physically stronger than you?”

“It’s not about physical strength!” she blurts out, her whole face turning very red so quickly it’s quite comical.

“Okay then, hypothetically speaking, how would you do it? No magic involved.”

“Are you asking me how would I drown you in this bathtub? Are you serious?”

Samson shrugs. “You seem so confident that it would be so easy, tell me then, how exactly would that go.”

“Do you think I _actually_ plan to drown you?” Calpernia narrows her eyes. “That it was my main purpose of cleaning this place? To invite you here and drown you?”

“You’re not answering my question! _How_?” he asks in a mock serious tone. “Surely you have everything figured out, like always.”

She’s shaking with anger, and Samson has to admit it’s quite amusing to watch her get irritated with the smallest things.

“All I’m saying,” he continues in the most innocent voice, “is that you seem so certain you could easily overpower me, while I think it would be rather impossible. I mean, you have a bit of muscle on your arms but I do know you’re so skinny I can wrap my hands around your waist, Lady Calpernia.”

“ _Enough_!” she hisses, blushing furiously like a Chantry sister. “End of the conversation! One more word and I will remind you why you should _never_ make fun of powerful mages!”

She mumbles something in Tevene (he knows all the swearwords in this language already), and he can barely contain his laughter. She’s going to punch him later, Samson is sure. Or she will throw him out of the window. Calpernia proved to be creative, she will certainly think how to punish him for teasing her.

His smile disappears completely when he glances at his wrist. With morbid curiosity, he observes crimson veins visible through the pale skin, and that howling gets louder the more he concentrates on them. There are red crystals and spikes growing inside him, at times he can see them poking through his skin, and he’s sure, he’s _almost_ sure they are real.

Then he moves his eyes back to Calpernia, and the noise stops, turning to a whisper somewhere in the back of his mind.

Calpernia gives him a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. He just shakes his head.

“Are you growing a beard?” she asks suddenly, her eyes scanning his face. “Or a moustache? Please tell me you're _not_ growing a moustache!”

“Not a fan of facial hair? Erimond will be disappointed.”

Hearing the name, her expression changes instantly. Of course he’s doing this on purpose. It's fairly entertaining to watch as her brows knit, lips curl. “Why do you have to mention this man? You know I can't stand this arrogant– “

“I'm not growing a moustache,” Samson says quickly before she can start one of her tirades explaining in detail why she highly dislikes magister Erimond.

“You should shave.”

“I’ve been busy with other things lately,” he explains vaguely.

Because of the Inquisition, lyrium shipments aren’t going as smoothly as expected. His soldiers are getting anxious and difficult to control when the red storm inside them gradually drives them mad. Sufficient to say, he has other things on his mind than getting a proper shave.

“You’re not busy now.”

“Maybe later. First things first, you complained I need a bath, so…”

“Let me, then,” she suggests all of the sudden.

“Uh…” it’s all Samson can say, wondering if he heard her right.

“Wait, I’ll go get a razor.”

Calpernia gets up before he can offer any kind of response. She leaves the room and disappears for a longer while. Samson isn’t even going to question why she would have a razor in the first place. It seems like this woman can make things appear with the power of her will.

Scooting back, he stretches out his legs and spreads his arms along the top of the tub. As silly as it sounds, Samson has to admit he wouldn’t mind living in luxury at least for a little bit. It would be a nice change.

Before he can ponder more on the matter, Calpernia is back with a simple razor in her hand. She gets inside again and kneels in between his legs. As she’s leaning in, he can smell the oils she rubbed in her skin.

“Alright, we _are_ doing this…”

“Yes. So shut up,” she reaches out to touch his face. “And do not move.”

_You don’t have to say it twice_ , he thinks, noticing she looks rather threatening. Staring at her isn't an option, sadly (he's not risking her yelling at him again, especially when she has a sharp object in her hands). Samson looks up, trying to ignore how close she is to him.

Holding his chin firmly, Calpernia narrows her eyes, and tilts his head to one side. She scraps the razor down his cheek, then rinsing the blade in the water after each swipe. He simply lets her do what she wants, like in other situations before. Her hands move with precision as she draws the blade over his skin, taking away stubble and soap, leaving bare, smooth skin. Her hands, always in motion when she talks or casts a spell, are steady this time, her fingertips brushing his skin occasionally.

“Now look– Fenhedis!”

The blade cuts the skin, his eyes snap open to see consternation mixed with panic on Calpernia's face. The cut on his cheek is small, stings only a little, a reminder he's still a person who bleeds like everyone else (it's easy to forget, sometimes).

“I'll be more careful,” her voice is barely a whisper as she wipes blood from his face with her thumb. “I told you to hold still!” she says louder, with more force. Her cheeks instantly turn red.

Samson bites back a comment. If she wants to blame someone, then she may as well blame him. He observes as the blush on her face goes a shade darker, spreading down on her neck and chest.

She tips his head upward. “Look up and don't move.”

Despite her commanding tone, there's a hint of uncertainty in her voice. He doesn't move as the blade scrapes his skin. Samson briefly wonders if it’s wise to let her sit so close to him, with a knife in her hand. She could cut his throat so easily it makes the templar in him horrified.

 But she won't do it. Yet for a split second he can see himself gasping for air, blood spraying from an open wound. Calpernia holds the knife to stab him again and again, until there's no life in him left. _Never trust a mage_ , the thing inside him hisses.

When Samson blinks the vision is gone.

Calpernia makes him look at her to inspect his face with a criticism. “You seem… different.”

“My nose’s intact, and my face isn't bleeding profusely, I guess it can't be _that_ bad.”

Her fingers move down from his face to trace an unnaturally red vein visible through the thin skin on his neck. There’s something incredibly close to genuine concern in her eyes. Worry is not what he wants to see in her eyes. It would be _so easy_ to pull her closer. Samson takes a deep breath, smelling lavender and roses. It’s pleasant and new; sweeter than he expects, sweeter than he remembers. He leans in, his lips so close to her neck but not touching her skin, not yet, though he _wants_ to, craving what only she can offer.

Before he can decide if he should move, she’s out of his reach, stepping out of the tub. The sound of the razor landing on the cold stone floor echoes inside the room.

Calpernia grabs a towel and presses it to her dripping face with both hands. Then she reaches for her robe, puts it on quickly, leaving the room before he can even blink. Samson lets out a sigh. She is as fickle as the flames her hands create.

After a moment of hesitation, Samson decides to follow. The fabric of his clothes feels strange, or maybe his skin is oddly sensitive. He walks to the other room, uncertain if he finds her there, but there she is, as if waiting for him. When their eyes meet, she frowns, hiding her emotions behind a wall of anger.

“You’re irritating me, get out,” she points at the door.

“As you wish,” he shakes his head. There goes his hope. He should start counting how many times Calpernia says this exact phase to him. He’s the primary source of her annoyance, it seems.

“Thanks for…” Samson lets out a sigh, suddenly feeling tired. “Everything,” he says weakly.

Fancy baths and _soaps_ are nice, though the idea of coming back to the real world that awaits him just behind the door looks particularly unpleasant right now.

The yearning inside him doesn’t want to go away, more distracting than other things tormenting his mind. In a moment of weakness, he walks toward Calpernia, stopping so close he could reach out and touch her. He won’t.

“If you ever want to try drowning me in that tub, you know where to find me.”

The words slip from his tongue before he can think. Calpernia’s cheek twitches, anger flashing in her eyes. He braces himself for a well–deserved  punch. She’s a feisty girl, though as long as she’s not throwing spells at him, he can take it. Let’s be real here, she may be a fighter but what her tiny fists could possibly do?

But the punch never comes.

With an angry growl, she shoves him hard instead, and Samson stumbles backwards, collapsing right on the bed. He’s not going to complain, of course not, especially when she quickly moves on top of him, each leg going on each side of his hips. Laying her hands flat against his chest, she keeps him pinned down, and her eyes meet with his.

“I thought you said I'm irritating you.”

“You are, so you better shut up now.”

Her gaze moves to a spot on his cheek where the blade cut his skin. He has already forgotten about it, but Calpernia touches the small wound again, so lightly he can barely feel the brush of her fingertips.

She lowers her head so he won’t notice the colour rising to her cheeks, then pushes her face into the crook of his neck. Calpernia lies still, silent and so warm that he allows himself to believe all his problems disappeared.

There’s still time till morning when she will shove him out of the door. Obviously he can’t be seen here, even though not a single soul ever dares to disturb the leader of the Venatori. No one comes to her chamber uninvited (he’s the only exception, of course).

He finally gives up, his tentative hands move to her back. Calpernia lays still, her heartbeat is loud, louder than that damned howling in his head. Samson has to force himself to sleep, hoping he can finally get some rest. Before he drifts away, he thinks that maybe…

Maybe she is the only thing anchoring him to reality.


End file.
